Of Chickens, Mirrors, Thieves and Blades
by BeseechBedlam
Summary: What if The Chicken Chaser was, in fact, everyone's favourite prodigal pirate?


_Why hello, my pretties.  
__This story is supposed to be part of the whole NaNoWriMo thing, but I'm not motivated enough to hit 50k, so instead I'm here. Whatever. Author's Notes are lame.  
__Please don't sue me, Lionhead, I'm not taking credit for anything here. All rights are reserved by the respective parties involved in the making of this glorious franchise, etc, etc, etc. _

* * *

The saddest man in the world paced the length of his bedroom, Dragonstomper .48 in hand. He sought out the sight of himself in the mirror and gave pause; he may be the saddest man in the world, but he was also the most narcissistic. Probably the wealthiest too. And without a doubt the most beautiful.

The meticulously tousled twirls of his sable fringe fell into his face, and in the glass he saw himself reflected.

Or perhaps he was the reflection…?

With steady hands and a sharp eye, he raised his pistol to the impersonator, aiming at the culprit's temple- through the barrel of the gun, it was possible to feel the blood coursing around his head, to his brain, back down to his heavy, hedonistic heart.

The doppelgänger did the same.

Pulling the hammer into place, they took a step one another in tandem, each staring down his echo with the same chilly ocean eyes.

Yet they were not the same. Only one pair was poisoned with that deep, black, lonely mud. Only the saddest man in the world could have eyes like those.

"Bang."

The impersonator mouthed his word, pointed the gun at the mirror and fired; the saddest man in the world clutched his heart, falling into the pit therein, embraced by the mire and the gore and the scores of men that had gone before.

There was no light and lovely angel to uplift him here- it was empty and as far from happy as any place could be. He sighed and sat to think of more happy things. He fell asleep and dreamed of chasing chickens.

* * *

Meanwhile, Reaver admired the dazzling shards of himself strewn across his bedroom floor; it was an understatement to say he looked good from every angle.

Ah, well. Another seven years of bad luck. The total currently stood at five hundred and seventy-four, so he had no qualms with adding seven more.

"Uh, excuse me, sir?" A feeble speak was issued from the doorway. He beckoned, she entered. "Could I clean that up for you?"

"Careful not to cut yourself, ma chére," he warned.

But she cut herself. The mousey-haired, doe-eyed, pasty-faced maid had cut herself when he had specifically told her not to. She looked up at him, panicked and pleading, at which the King of Pirates clicked his tongue. She looked like a girl he used to know.

"Let me take a look at that," he murmured atop a sugar-coated breath. "Before you soil my nice new carpets." Hesitantly, the mousey maid offered up her slitted palm- what was her name?

Nadia, Naomi, Nancy… Sadie, Sarah, Susan… Abby, Alice, Angel… That would have to do.

"I'm afraid this affliction is most severe- as dire a wound as any! In fact, it's rather miraculous that you survived! Let me take care of you, Angel…"

She acquiesced and The Thief licked her laceration, savouring the copper tang whilst eliciting a whimper. "Hush now, darling," he mumbled, clutching her close, unlacing her bodice, touching her where it hurt. He knew because he had been touched there too. "Hush," he repeated, covering her trembling lips with meaning.

It was no use. She screamed. She screamed and writhed and begged and pleaded and cried when all he really wanted was for her to be silent as he thrusted in and out of her in a rhythm so mechanical it bordered on clockwork. Nonetheless, he felt her flutter against his chest like the dying beats of a butterfly's wings, and when she was done he cast her aside. The fallen Angel lay amidst the mirror, every bit as broken.

"Do finish picking up that glass, won't you, love?" he crooned, finding and fastening his belt around his hips flippantly. "And try to refrain from any more unnecessary injury- next time, it could prove fatal."

Doe-eyes looked up at him in fear and adoration and spoke their understanding.

"There's a good lass," the Pirate King chirruped mellifluously. He turned on his heel, off to buy another mirror; every moment deprived of such nacreous beauty was surely a travesty, was it not?

Somewhere else, atop the tallest building, in the loneliest heart, at the bottom of the deepest pit, caked in the world's blackest mud, the Chicken Chaser rubbed his eyes. He knew this to be the start of many broken mirrors and just as many sleepless nights.

He shucked off the grit and got to his feet, trudging through a field of lucid little flowers with the sole intent of escaping this prison.

* * *

A black-haired boy chased a chicken through a field of maize, punting the fowl with the toe of his boot. The bird made a graceless arc in the empty air, flapping her wings as though she really could fly- he wondered if it was worth it. The chicken didn't seem to mind.

A wordless shuffling behind him tore the boy from his lamentable reverie. He abandoned his feathered victim and clutched at his toy gun, a functional replica of a flintlock pistol, prepared to vanquish whatever stood behind him. Or at least die trying. He swallowed his fear and turned around.

But there were no hobbes, not a banshee in sight, not even so much as a meagre beetle in sight; amidst the thigh-high, yellowing maize, a girl of about eight or nine held her breath. He looked her up and down and laughed. He laughed at her and he laughed at himself.

"What're you doing here, sulking in the corn?" he sing-songed.

She stared at him blankly.

He didn't take kindly to being ignored by little peasant girls barely as tall as the grass in which they stood. "What's the matter?" he sneered. "Balverine got your tongue?"

She raised a clammy hand to clasp her throat, drawing attention to a jagged scar he hadn't noticed.

"Oh." The chicken chaser was slightly abashed, though determined not to show it. "Mute, are you? That's convenient. If you'll excuse me, Miss Mute, I have things to do."

He stalked past a scarecrow, down the hill, past an old oak tree in pursuit of his next victim. Before he could say anything else he would regret.

The blank girl silently watched as he hiked the hill, and the hill after that with his cutlass glistening, his pistol gleaming and a large Bargate Prison tattoo adorning his sallow skin. He marched with all the poise, all the charms, all the beauty and all the scars of one who can't stop chasing chickens.

She watched him traverse the hilly glade lovingly. For one so arrogant and wild, he was still untamed and innocent. Centuries fell away from his pallid face, and no trace of melancholia tainted his handsome features, leaving him uninhibited and unwary. He was so oblivious that he strolled right into His arms. He collapsed into His embrace, terrified of death with nothing left to lose; his mother was dead, his sister slain, his father shot down, his home sacked and rebuilt into a place he no longer recognized...

If you can't beat them, join them, right?

And that is what the chicken chaser did. He joined the winning side, in exchange for everything he had ever wanted, while the blank girl silently watched it all unfold. He didn't need to beg, He was already in his debt. All he did was give the word, and in some ways that made it even worse. There was no time to reconsider, not a fraction of a moment to think better of what he was about to do- what the Pirate King says goes. And so, in a single scattered second, Oakvale was no more.

Blood dripped from the windows of every home and the stink of sulphur filled the air. The young, the old, the cowardly and the bold were slaughtered indiscriminately by minions wielding uncharacteristic candy-cane sticks: children's bodies were strung from trees in a grisly array of Christmas spirit, dribbling their entrails here and there. Women with pretty faces were turned inside out- needless to say, they weren't so pretty anymore. The old warehouse was burnt to the ground with the owner inside, his skin blistering, popping, dripping as it fell away from his flesh, poisoning the thick air with a smell strangely reminiscent of dinner. A teddy bear by the name of Rosie was engulfed by flames, her russet fur singed to black, her stuffing glowing brilliant with embers, her glass eyes getting so hot they popped…

This is when the boy chasing chickens becomes the saddest man in the world.

The blank, mute girl peers through the maize; it's plain to see just what he's thinking. His eyes are just about fall out of head and his jaw goes slack; he's slumped, panting now, sweating and too stunned to scream. He's silent, but he may as well be screaming. It's written all over his face in a grotesque, childish scrawl: "what have I done?"

* * *

Reaver gasped, sitting up in his large, lonely bed; it was decidedly too large to sleep in alone. Guilt had nothing to do with it, of course. To even muse as such would be ridiculous. He needed no redemption and he apologized to no one— he is Reaver, after all. A traitor by nature, a thief and a deviant. Nothing less, and nothing more.

With that reassurance, he kicked off the covers and forsook their clammy folds in favour of the salty sea brine blowing in through his window. The horizon was streaked with the very first feathers of day, softly illuminating the world from behind the mountains of the east: it would have been a perfect sunrise, if not for the looming pale of The Spire… but no matter. He sighed, planning the day upon which he would tear it down.

* * *

"Hammer blames you for her father's death," the blood-soaked banshee rasped, pallid and rotting arms outstretched, coaxing more demonic children from the shadows of the marsh. They drew their toy shadow-swords while their mother covered her face in shame, or fear, or anger, or whatever it is that banshees feel. "She will return one day, seeking her reven—"

Sparrow cut off the decaying spinster with a bullet through her head. Then another, just to be certain; you can never be too careful. When she was satisfied that the howling wench was thoroughly deceased, she holstered her pistol, sheathed her katana and knelt down in the mud and miscellaneous gore to tend to Sharik's wounds— seeing the mottled dog quivering in fear brought back memories of a city-side street curb covered in snowy cobbles, the smell of balverine spleen beer, when she was small and Rosie was still alive.

Sharik barked, replete with newfound vitality, and together he and his mistress trudged through the eerie swamps of Wraithmarsh, behind an ancient oak tree, up a hill and past a dishevelled scarecrow resolutely standing in a field of what used to be maize. Through the familiar fog, a dastardly melody played— it was sour, like off milk, leaving a bitter taste on the dog's lolling tongue and creeping Sparrow out much more than she cared to admit.

To detract from the less-than-pleasant scenery, she mused over the banshee's counsel: trying to imagine rolly-polly, foolhardy Hammer chasing after her to exact epic retribution without laughing was nigh-impossible. The girl may be hot-headed and impetuous, but she lacked the finesse necessary to engineer a vendetta of those proportions. Sparrow chuckled inwardly, and with Sharik by her side, she shattered the vertebrates of an entire village of hollow monsters, cutting herself a path to the infamous town of Bloodstone.

When she finally alighted upon the infamous Bloodstone –notorious for the severity of its citizens, the strength of its prostitution industry and not least for the ruthlessness of its captain- Sparrow was drastically disappointed. The whores weren't even good-looking, for the love of Skorm. Nonetheless, she contented herself with the closest bed she could find, collapsing into The Leper's Arms for the evening.

What followed was an indiscernible darkness, a dream on the tip of her tongue but refusing to blossom. It was a memory, an experience and a vision all in one,poisoned with the same bitter lullaby that haunted Wraithmarsh…

* * *

Sparrow was finally roused from her dreams by the hum of clinking glasses, the gurgle of drunkards, piercing barbs of the sun and the distinctive sound of gunfire. She scrambled for Sharik, feeling his furred head before trying to reach her pistol whilst rolling out of bed, effectively tying herself in the sheets and falling on the floor. She righted herself with as much dignity as she could muster, sheathed her katana and burst through the door in time to see a crowd of six or seven thugs surrounding a figure in scarlet. She recognised one of the hoodlums as Jeffrey the Thug, who had asked her repeatedly if she was getting a bit old to be calling herself Sparrow. One does not outgrow a name. She levelled her gun, sending tatters of his internal organs across the room— Jeffrey was born a Jeffrey, and he died as a Jeffrey; does it need to be any more complicated?

The scarlet figure whirred into motion, taking the heads off those closest to him with a flourish of his cutlass while Sparrow picked off the remainder of the thugs from her vantage point upon the stairs. When the last head rolled and the last of the thug's eyes lolled shut, Sharik emerged from his hiding place, shivering profusely: for all his snarling, he was a bit yellow. Sparrow scoffed at him and vaulted the rail, expecting the man in scarlet to be a wheedling, pot-bellied peasant, filled with adulation for his would-be saviour: instead, she got an apathetic, well-dressed gentleman, definitely sans the pot-belly and the adulation. He gave her a withering look.

"If it was your intention to shower me in gastric juices, you succeeded," he snarled, gingerly wiping his lapel with a handkerchief. Without missing a beat, he sat down and asked the bartender for a triple shot of something sure to send him to sleep: she quirked an eyebrow, glancing between the clock (which read seven-thirty) and the early drunkard.

"Oh, don't look at me that way," he moaned. "I love myself and my assets much too dearly to engage in some kind of alcohol-fuelled abortive helix of self-loathing. I just need a drink." He downed the glass set before him in one courageous gulp. "Now, I'd like to ask you to join me. Not because I think particularly highly of you, but because the other patrons all appear to be deceased."

She raised a clammy hand to clasp her throat, drawing attention to a jagged scar he hadn't noticed.

"Oh. Luckily for you, I relish the sound of my own voice and I loathe interruptions, so this suits my purposes marvellously. Neil, a drink for the lady with the gun," he barked, addressing the cowering bartender. Whilst her unsavoury companion guzzled down the pungent beverage set before him, Sparrow found it difficult to even inhale the noxious smell without gagging, rendering her sober enough to watch him deteriorate into a miserable puddle upon the countertop.

By nine o'clock, the man was a mess.

"So you see, she had to die; I really didn't have a choice in the matter. Il était hors de mes mains!" at this, he hiccupped violently, flailing about as though each hitch was a bullet. "Do you much like scorpions?" He clutched her hand, squeezing it possessively. "Do you like them much? Say no. Arachanox is very scary, not to be trifled with by the likes of you." The bemused Sparrow shook her head in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture. "Excellent," he slurred, spilling the probably poisonous contents of his glass- "another!" he cried, almost in triumph. Neil assessed him uneasily, haltingly biting his lip.

"Ah dunno Sir, you're kinda drunk…" The timid bartender shrank behind the counter, cowering behind the mug he was washing; Sparrow realised his reaction was warranted when the drunkard beside her pulled out a firearm from his belt, languidly fingering the trigger.

"Do you presume –hic- to tell me what I can and can't do?"

"No, sir, I was just thinkin' of ya welfare…"

"I am perfectly capable –hic- of taking care of myself. I am an adult, Neil. A very –hic- capable adult. Now, if you would like to live much longer, fill up this bloody glass." As the barman turned his back in order to oblige his petulant patron, the man in scarlet shoved his gun back into its pouch and the wary Sparrow looked her undesirable companion up and down with a critical gaze. She wondered whether he would notice if she snatched his gun long enough to remove the bullets, then slide it back into his belt…

Edgily, her hand hovered above the grip of the pistol, darting in and out like an indecisive insect until she finally plucked up the fortitude to pick the pistol from his belt- the shriek that issued from the man was so ear-splittingly inhuman that Sparrow could have sworn he was descended from banshees.

"Give me my gun and I shall kill you quickly," he ordered authoritatively, tapping the table impatiently, whilst Neil looked at her imploringly.

"Get him out of here!" he mouthed, frantically gesturing to the door.

Glancing between the two men, Sparrow assessed the situation: as appealing as death at the hands of this buffoon may seem, she really couldn't afford to die just yet. She launched herself out the door and began running for the cliff-side trail; the scarlet man's thundering footsteps were every bit as clamorous as her own as he chased her into the town of Wraithmarsh.

* * *

Panting, Sparrow leaned on the dilapidated windowsill of the water-logged orphanage. From her temporary sanctuary, she watched the hollow men swing their blunt weapons at the drunkard with vigour, and for the most part, he handled himself well: he dodged, rolled, parried and retaliated with obvious skill, swearing all the while. She almost felt remorseful when the horde finally broke down his defences, sending him sprawling in the mire. Sighing, she drew her katana, ready to dispatch the remainder of the monsters he had left.

Once the wisps had dispersed with a distinctive hiss and Wraithmarsh was returned to its customary hush, Sparrow petted her dog behind the ears in appreciation. Although she couldn't speak, to him it didn't matter: words weren't needed to know how much she adored her Sharik, which was one of the many reasons she would do anything for him.

Both she and her hound were too preoccupied with one another to notice a figure emerging from the fog; it clambered to its feet with exquisite clumsiness, shuffling toward them with a blood-stuck blade drawn. Delicately, he pressed the point to her neck.

"Hands on your head. Now."

Sharik yelped as Sparrow raised her hands to her head.

"Next, turn around."

She shut her eyes and did as the patronising voice instructed, wading around in the knee-high bog to face her assailant.

"No, that won't do at all. Open them, I'd like you to watch as I disembowel you and feed your intestines to the balverines."

When the let her eyes flicker open, she was stunned to see the scarlet man, entirely intact and full of fury- her surprise must have been etched into her expression, because he answered her silent question unbidden.

"Did you really think you could get rid of me that easily? Silly, doleful peasant. I am the Pirate King, The Thief, the scourge of Albion's waters; I am the stuff of which legends are made. I am Reaver." At this, he paused to trace her collarbone with the cold edge of his cutlass, sending goosebumps over her skin. "I suppose I should thank you," he muttered softly. "You've cured me of my insalubrious case of the hiccups..."

Reaver's musings were interrupted by a grotesque choking sound: he keeled over then, his frame wracked by heaving surges as the contents of his stomach were emptied into the drowned farm. As sorry as she felt for the man, Sparrow exploited the moment to draw her clockwork pistol and point it at his head.

"Give it a rest, would you? I have no intention of harming you. I just want my pistol back," he gasped between surges of bile. She was honestly concerned that he was about to cough up a lung, or some other equally vital organ.

"You know what," he amended, straightening himself and wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, "keep the blasted thing." Reaver turned to stalk off in a final show of arrogance, but the sound of howling in the distance stunted his departure- in this state, he couldn't afford to fight balverines lest they take his head and never give it back. Sparrow realised this, and she also realised that she needed this arrogant squaw of a man alive, so she reluctantly reached for his acid-drenched sleeve, tugging on it and motioning for him to follow her.

Together, the unlikely trio traversed the deadened forest, quickening their pace as the animalistic moans drew nearer. Sharik whimpered, scampering as far away from Reaver as he could whilst Sparrow took his hand, practically dragging him along the muddy path, past the malfunctioning cullis gate that had stranded her there and to the hallowed, violet swirl of an open demon door. Although she was loathe to share her sanctum with him, there was little choice: a scruffy balverine had spotted them now, echoing his lament to the moon and soon there would be a hoard of them at hand. With a grunt, she shoved the man in scarlet through the portal, herself and Sharik following closely behind.

* * *

Sparrow dragged him to the creek, hauling the flaccid, semi-conscious body into the coolly running water; he gasped raggedly, shaking himself as Sharik would while his glassy eyes darted around blindly.

"I know this place," he spluttered, struggling to raise himself from the brook and stumbling towards her home. "Rose cottage," he murmured fondly. "Yes, yes, that's it, Rose cottage. The woman who lived here was a hag. She would never shut up- until I cut her head off, of course. She was much nicer then… Much, much nicer."

The breathless adventurer watched The Thief lurching towards her home, concerned for her carpets- they were relatively new, and Sparrow would hate to have the pungent smell of regurgitated alcohol seeping into her solitude. When she silently insisted that Reaver remove his soiled clothes, he was naturally quite scandalized.

"I did not imagine you to be so forward! How dare you try to take advantage of me in my disillusioned state!" he reprimanded her with a wavering scowl when she tried taking his pompous coat. "You ought to be ashamed. Disgusted with yourself. Replete with disgrace. I am a gentleman, and I demand to be treated as such."

The object of his admonition shrugged, assessed him with weary resignation, went inside and shut the door behind her. The message was clear: remove your repugnant attire or sleep on the doorstep.

For a while, he fumed on the porch, oozing indignation and rage, but in spite of the Winter in Albion, there were mosquitoes fizzling around in the warm, wanton light. He tried to ignore their proboscises probing his skin, resist the insatiable urge to scratch, focus his mind on other things... Of course, it was futile. The man in scarlet clawed at his neck and wrists where the infernal bugs had bitten, shredding away the skin until his nails were caked in blood and even then the sting would not abate: it is not very often that Reaver admits defeat, but in this instance he saw no other alternative. Gathering what remained of his pride, he shrugged out of his coat, kicked off his pants, removed his shoes, shucked off his sodden gloves and timidly knocked on the door.

"My darling, this is silly. I'm sorry to have resisted you earlier- I was merely taken aback. How foolish of me to think you could be immune to my charms. Laisse-moi entrer."

As expected, Sparrow opened the door. However, her expression was totally unanticipated; rather than the gleeful lust customary of most admirers, her weather-worn, sun-bleached features were filled with unspoken disgust and pique. She waved him in, flicking the flying bug-armada away whilst taking care to look at him as little as possible: although it was -admittedly- difficult, she was no pervert. She was not a pervert. Not a pervert.

Perhaps just a little. She snuck a glance, stunned at what she saw though not pleasantly so- his wrists, ankles and neck had been ravaged raw, creating valleys of burst capillaries nestled between rugged ranges of blistering bites. They hung on his skin like cuffs.

For the second time in merely an evening, Sparrow found herself feeling sorry for the man before her. Grudgingly, she showed him to the sink, leaving him to bathe while she cleared Terry Cotter's decaying skeleton from the guest bed, replacing those age-old sheets with something a fraction more hygienic; the elephant motif of the covers made her smile, and she wished it could do as much for her sordid visitor. She was riven from her cotton thoughts by the sound of sickness emanating from the next room, and she at once was furious to think of her upholstery being soiled as well as eager to eject her unwarranted guest back into the muggy night, regardless of the mosquitoes.

But when she found the otherwise dignified King of Pirates curled over the basin, spilling his heart out to the drain, choking on the poison he had drank and crying from the exertion, Sparrow forgot her vow to avenge her flooring.

She touched him timidly, pulling the sodden hair from his face as she ran little circles around his back, tracing the sharp tattoo covering his broad shoulders. When his heaving lessened, she brought him a glass of water and washed his hair, doing all the simple domestic things that she had never experienced herself with a brittle, simple sense of courtesy. Reaver draped his heavy body over her, allowing himself to lean on another human being for the first time in five hundred and seventy-four years as she dragged him to the bedroom, drawing back the covers, tucking him in and -before he could object- ruffling his hair.

He languidly swatted her hand away, getting there too late to prevent the ridiculous spikes Sparrow was responsible for and letting the blow land limply on the pillow beside him. "Please refrain from touching my hair," he croaked with a scowl. "It's gorgeous. I'm gorgeous. I can understand why you might want to touch me, but please, anywhere but the hair, my dear girl."

If she could, Sparrow would have laughed; he was dishevelled. His sable fringe was daubed flush to his forehead, murky hollows encircled his bright eyes, he reeked of alcohol and a multitude of wrinkles she hadn't noticed before seemed to well up on his face, like blood from a wound. And yet, he was still gorgeous, in a way. Even though he wasn't as perfect as he portrayed, the cracks were showing and the ends were frayed, he was still gorgeous.

Shaking her head at her own stupid paradox, Sparrow blew out the candle on the bedside and turned to leave, until a ghostly pale hand caught the hem of her nightdress.

"Stay."

Reaver said it like a suggestion, without an ounce of authority. She could easily pull herself from his grasp, after all. There was nothing stopping her from leaving him there, alone with the moon. She had no incentive to share his nightmares. No motivation to endure his warm breath on the back of her neck tonight. Why should Sparrow stay?

There was no easy answer to that question.

She took his hand, squeezed it once and then left the room, closing the door so she wouldn't have to see his doleful blue eyes illuminated by nothing but the gloom. She trundled to her bedroom, crawled beneath the blankets, covered her head with a pillow and tried to scream.

* * *

The Queen took loping strides through a valley bordered by mountains dusted with early Autumn snow, holding a man that had been missing for what seemed like eons. In one gloved hand, she clutched a languid posie of late wild flowers, while the other grasped his meticulously starched coat covetously, marking him as hers to any and all who cared enough to listen.

"You know your majesty, I once tried to shoot the fog," her companion mused, looking away to conceal his idiotic grin. "And you know what?"

She looked up at him in response, curiosity colouring her complexion. "What 'appened?"

"I mist," he answered, smiling at her in earnest.

Although it was quite possibly the worst pun she had ever heard, the Queen wheezed a rambunctious, breathless laugh.

"But dear," she cried coquettishly, "you never miss."

"I know," he replied, disentangling himself from her grasp in order to pursue an all-too-contented chicken.

When he had kicked the bird into the river and returned to offer his arm once more, The Queen threw away the wild flowers, forsaking them for an unwieldy war-hammer. She shirked his gallant offer, shoving him away from her and raising her weapon: before her bewildered love could respond, he was experiencing severe internal haemorrhaging and several broken bones. He was dead before he could make a sound.

A white funeral followed, hardly anyone in attendance. The chicken chaser was laid low with his irrevocable reminder of Bargate Prison painted on for all to see, not that anyone did: those who loved him had already been buried long ago, with the exception of the fresh tomb beside him. That was more recent. That was still smarting. That death could not be forgiven as easily as his own. For the first time in life or death, the chicken chaser felt the need to atone.

When you're dead, you're dead; but that's not strictly true, is it? When there's something you have to do for someone you really love, it's different. The rules of the ephemeral don't apply to you. Sometimes, there is a hate or a passion that's more than enough to tear your soul from the conveyor belt of mortality and back into this world. And so it was with this sallow soul, the monarch's companion, the saddest man in the world, condemned by the Queen's court to stalk the haggard morass of his own making for as long as anyone shall ever live.

This is torment. This is torture. This is not purgatory. This is true hell.

* * *

Daybreak brought with it a cold sweat and a shudder for Sparrow. The covers were so wintry they felt damp, her pillow was akin to ice and when her feet addressed the floor she felt as though they might fall off. The weather inside demon doors was always unpredictable- it depended on its emotional state and other such nonsense, flicking through seasons like pages in a book. She sniffed peevishly, hoping Sharik had enough sense to be sitting somewhere inside.

Anxiously, she searched for him upstairs and down, with the exception of the room in which Reaver slept, but her dog was nowhere in sight; Sparrow hurled herself out the door, vaulted off the porch and frantically ran barefoot through the snow in search of her best friend, oblivious to the purple colour invading her lips. Although she left a streak of icy water down the halls, she ran through her home to the back garden, checking the door to the cave there- it was locked, just as it always was. Sharik had to be on this homestead somewhere, and the only place she had not yet checked was Reaver's room. With a feeling like a twisting blade in her belly she raced to his room, stopping only to pick the nearest pistol from her bedside, which happened to be the Dragonstomper: she would stop at nothing to protect her dog.

She flung open the door with abandon, nearly dislodging the hinges in her hurry- the scene before her was truly strange. She stopped dead, immobilized by shock and confusion, surprised to see her ever-faithful hound -who had only recently been cowering away from Reaver- betraying her, asleep at The Thief's feet.

He opened his eyes as though he was looking toward the sun, shielding his gaze with an indolent arm, yawning as did so. "Good morning, my dearie. I'd get up to ravage you, but I'm afraid I'm suffering from a concussion- perhaps I shall acquire a tumour of some description. And besides, your hound is much too pleasant to expel." Reaver paused to wriggle his toes, making Sharik squirm to illustrate his point. "Go fix me breakfast, won't you? Atta girl. But before you do, would you be so kind as to give me back my pistol?" She quirked her eyebrows, questioning her arbitration; he had threatened to kill her. Twice. And yet, in spite of her better judgement's desperate appeals, she handed him the weapon, delicately so as not to touch his skin. "Much obliged, ma chére," he thanked her, fitting his fingers to the familiar grip with untold attachment. "It is good to have this back. Now, about breakfast…?"

With a snort, Sparrow yanked Sharik off the bed by the scruff of his neck, exiting the room and closing the door briskly, before she could do anything else she would regret. She scoured the house for a suitable meal, finding nothing befitting aristocracy: flaccid celery and puny carrots would not do. When she had conducted so thorough a search that she was sure nothing edible could be hiding in the house, she reluctantly resolved to delve into her own satchel- she was not entirely sure why she cared what Reaver thought, but she did. She picked out one of the less mealy pies along with a health potion: with the hangover he had, coupled with the beating he's received at the hands of the hollow men, he definitely needed it.

"You know, love, it's rather difficult to understand you," Reaver chipped betwixt mouthfuls of erudite apple pie. "Maybe you should take up writing your thoughts- ever thought of doing that?" In response, she bashfully bit her lip, eyes bursting into shame as she fidgeted with the elephants on the bed. She was an urchin of humble beginnings, what did he expect? She had been born and raised by the streets, the beggars, the drunkards and the whores, each whittling into her their dazzling array of knowledge and experiences; none of which entailed spelling.

"Oh, I see," he laughed, contentedly sipping a health potion, "you're not much of a literary type, eh? No matter, that is easily remedied." Slugging down the last of the tonic, he sat up resolutely. "Thenceforth, you will be my pupil and I, Reaver, shall teach you how to write."

On his bombastic orders, Sparrow located a fountain pen and a stack of papers, setting them out on the kitchen table where he joined her draped in blankets for the sake of modesty. He plucked the stationery from where it limply lay, and with a flourish he breathed new life onto the previously blank page, colouring the stark white with little letters, looping, languishing, curling and flaring. Sparrow looked on in amazement as he spelled out a word in his extravagant script: Reaver.

"As far as I am concerned, this is the most important word in the lexical archives of the language," he told her patronizingly, "and you will now copy it out until I'm satisfied. Chop chop." He held the pen out to her, which she dubiously took. Sparrow wasn't expecting it to feel so heavy, as though it bore the weight of all her untold anguishes, secrets, memories and experiences- but it did. When she put the tip to the page, she felt an abject air of possibility and expectation, as though the ink were going to write itself- but it did not. Her handwriting was as unsure and quivering as a last lullaby sung in the dead of night, shivering everywhere and breaking into pieces.

Although it was beyond frustrating and her whole body was lit with a reprehensible pink, Sparrow persisted, coping out the intricate letters over and over and over until they vaguely resembled Reaver's in terms of basic form. All the while, he watched her critically- at times he would lean across the table to correct the way she was holding the pen, or to guide her hand with his own, letting his cold fingertips linger on her warm wrists longer than was necessary, offering criticism and praise where it was due. For the most part, he was a gifted teacher, and when Sparrow had become comfortable with his name, he applauded her- though he did not admit it, he thought it enchanting to see the title he had been given written in her innocent hand. He rewarded her diligence by offering her the alphabet, reading each letter aloud before asking her to replicate them: by the time she had completed them to his contentment, her hands were blistered, but nonetheless they were both proud.

The sunset was barely visible through the crystalline clouds, but had the room not been bathed in the tawny death of the day, the pair would not have realised the time. They cleared the stained stationery from the comfortable wooden table and Sparrow offered him a slice of unicorn cheese on bread, which he politely accepted.

"You are the perfect hostess," he complimented her as she handed him his makeshift dinner, despite his being used to much more elaborate meals. The simplicity was uncomplicated and appreciated. Sparrow herself gnawed on a stick of celery, because frankly expensive foods made her ill. Expensive alcohols, however, were a different story.

They had stacked logs upon the hearth, creating a pyre of sorts, set it alight and turned off the lights when Sparrow produced a bottle of tenebrous vintage wine, awkwardly attempting to open it without success.

"Give it here, darling," Reaver commanded, hand expectantly extended. His vexed companion gave a huff of derision but obeyed, allowing him to hold the label to the light. "How on earth did you get your hands on this?" he inquired admiringly before popping the cork with his teeth. Sparrow sniffed in response to his question, slightly ashamed of the answer. "You stole it, didn't you? What a clever minx: your taste in thievery must be almost as discerning as your choice of wine! Come closer, I wouldn't want you to miss this." The mute woman mimed her disgust through narrowed eyes, scrunching up her nose in hyperbolic disgust, eliciting a groan from the scantily clothed, exquisitely toned man before her. "There will be no indecency, I swear on my honour as a gentleman- what more could you ask of me?" Pacified for the time being, she obliged and hunkered down to the floor across from him where she could search for the snowflakes in his eyes and consider the scrambled perfection of his hair whilst feigning fascination with the flamenco-flames in the fireplace.

Reverently, Reaver took a swig of the alcohol, looking every bit the pirate he was made to be. He licked his lips appreciatively, handing it back to the girl. "Your turn."

Sparrow snatched the tenebrous vintage of exsanguinated shadows from him and apprehensively swallowed a mouthful, too focused on preventing her lips from touching the rim of the bottle to recognise how dark, sweet and delicious the wine was. She shoved it back into his hands, resisting the urge to cough compulsively. They shared the first few gulps in silence, until the alcohol took the time to worm its way into their blood, infusing it with liquid invincibility.

"You know what?" the man previously in scarlet amended, "I hate the way you drink, as though you're afraid of wetting your tongue. It's simply an insult to the beverage! Scoot over and I shall demonstrate how to do it properly- are you familiar with the concept of shotgunning?" Sparrow knew about shotguns -though she preferred pistols- so she nodded dubiously, concerned as to where this strand of conversation would lead her. "Fantastic," Reaver replied enthusiastically, "just close your eyes, and when you feel me squeeze your hand, open your mouth. Does that sound simple enough?" Again, she nodded, screwing her eyes shut uncertainly and letting his surprisingly callused hand fall lightly on her own.

A deep breath. The sound of sloshing wine. Friendly pressure on her hand. And then- a mouthful of Reaver.

* * *

_If you're still with me thus far, you're either very strange or just too disgusted to stop reading. Either way, it'd be cool to hear from you. You know where the review button is. Don't be shy.  
Cheers to the incredible poet/cartoonist/social commentator Michael Leunig for lending me the idea what got this story kick-started. Not that he'll ever know, but yeah. _

_Tatty bye, my loves. _


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